A LITTLE BIT OF PATIENCE IS TOO MUCH
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: The Winchester boys tangle with a vengeful spirit who has a penchant for knitting needles and demonic cats. Reviews welcome and much appreciated!
1. No, I'm Not Making That Up

This is my submission for the SFTCOL(AR)S Secret Santa Story Exchange. It's being written for thursdaywench. I really, really hope she likes it and that it's everything she was hoping for.

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Disclaimer: Sad to say that nothing Winchester related belongs to me. I'm just having a little bit of fun. 

**A LITTLE BIT OF PATIENCE IS TOO MUCH**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

_**Westerville, Ohio**_

"Explain to me what we're doing here again," muttered Dean Winchester, a bit grouchily. He looked over at his younger brother and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. The younger hunter of all things evil twisted the doorknob and pushed, wincing as the front door of large old, abandoned house squealed in protest as it opened.

"God, do you ever listen to me?" retorted Sam, "In the last few months at least half a dozen teenagers have reported seeing one Patience Prattleworthy—"

"Patience Prattleworthy? C'mon, Sam, be honest—you're making that name up, right?"

Exasperated, Sam rolled his eyes and growled, "No, I'm NOT making that name up. These teenagers have reported seeing her here in this house—her house—anywhere between dusk and 3:00 a.m. The only problem being that Patience Prattleworthy went missing at least two years ago."

"Huh—she probably ran off with her boyfriend or something."

"Dude, she was like 85 at the time!"

"So? Can't 85 year olds have boyfriends too?"

Sam looked at his brother incredulously before shaking his head and closing his eyes for a split second. "Not even gonna go there."

Dean couldn't suppress a small snort.

Duffels in hand, the Winchester brothers inched across the threshold and into the house.

"Okay, so these teenagers claim to have seen her—" tossed out the elder Winchester.

"Yeah. There's only one problem though."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"The kids were apparently drunk when they related their stories. Which is why no one believes them."

"Great. This could all be just some drunken fantasy and a waste of our time then?"

"No. I really don't think so."

"Why's that?"

"Two of the teenagers ended up in the hospital, impaled with—of all things—knitting needles."

"Knitting needles? Fantastic. So Grandma's ghost tries to make human afghans. You're thinking—what—vengeful spirit?"

"Yeah, I think it's possible. These kids, despite being drunk, all have remarkably similar stories," explained Sam, "They're just hanging out, you know, having a good time when suddenly they hearing screeching, the air turns bitter cold—stuff like that."

The pair walked across the front foyer, bypassing the grand red-carpeted staircase in favor of a small hallway to the right that opened into a parlor.

"Man, would you look at this place?" Dean's gaze wandered around the room. "It looks like something out of the 1920's or something."

Sam's gaze roamed the room in concert with his brother's. Beneath layer upon layer of dust and grime as well as the wispy gray draping of cobwebs, the parlor did indeed look like something out of another era, with its sagebrush green walls and mandarin red trim.

"You said she disappeared only two years ago?" asked Dean.

"Yeah."

"Looks like it could have been 80 years ago."

"Yeah, it kinda does."

Dean approached the small desk, and pushing aside the ladderback chair, glanced down at the old-fashioned lavender stationery centered squarely in the middle. Like everything else in the room, it was coated with a thick layer of grime. He peered at the spidery handwriting on the top sheet.

"Well, unless ancient ghosts write letters, I guess two years is right. Here's a letter dated November 11, 2005."

The young hunter leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the faded scrawl. He began to read aloud.

_Dear Drusilla,_

_I've finally found perfection. Daddy, God rest his eternal soul, _

_would be proud. Dear Ellsworth will not be however. I suspect _

_he will be livid when he finds out. This last b—"_

Straightening, Dean shrugged and looked over at Sam. "That's it."

"Ellsworth Prattleworthy—the brother. He died about six months ago. Drusilla would be their younger sister. I think I read that she lives over in Palmerton, Tennessee."

Thinking ahead to their investigation, Dean started toward his brother without looking exactly where he was going. He felt sticky cobwebs drift over his face, clinging tenaciously to his cheeks and mouth. The hunter spit and sputtered to remove the offense. "So where do you want to start?" muttered the elder Winchester as he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Why don't we start upstairs and work our way down?" responded the younger hunter.

"Sounds like a plan." Dean yanked open the zipper on his duffel bag and pulled out his EMF meter. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can kick back with a cold beer." He waited while Sam extracted his own EMF meter before heading back down the hall toward the staircase in the foyer, his brother a half step behind him.

The pair started up the wide stairs, stirring up puffs of dust from the burgundy oriental carpet with each and every footfall. They paused at the top of the staircase.

"Should we split up? queried Sam.

"Uh, yeah. We'll do a quick scan. Yell if you find anything."

"Left or right?"

Cocking his head, Dean's gaze locked on the ceiling for a second as he actually gave it some thought. "I'll go right."

Nodding, Sam swiveled to the left, marching down an open hall, and approached the bedrooms located on that side of the house. He flicked on his meter as he stepped into the first room. Once plush deep green carpeting cushioned and muffled his steps. A quick glance around the bedroom revealed pink-and-white stippled walls without much in the way of adornment other than a few gold-framed mirrors. A four-poster bed painted an aged-dulled Nile green and covered with a moth-eaten wine-colored bedspread dominated the middle of the room while a small chintz upholstered chair was backed into a corner. There was little else in the room and what was there was covered in layers of crud. Sam's corner-to-corner, floor-to-ceiling inspection revealed nothing, his EMF meter remaining stubbornly silent.

The younger Winchester's inspection of the other two bedrooms and the small but elaborate bathroom proved equally fruitless, disclosing nothing but similar interior design in each area. With a sigh, he decided to head toward the other side of the upstairs where Dean was searching and see if he had any better luck. If this hunt turned out to be a bust, Dean would never let him hear the end of it.

His long legs ate up about half the distance when the first attack occurred. His only warning was a sudden frigid dip in temperature accompanied by the chatter and flashing lights of his EMF meter. Before he had a chance to do more than spin around, Sam felt a strong force slam into him, pushing him into the balustrade with a thud. He grunted in pain as his lower back and legs impacted with the dark wood, and Sam dropped his meter. A furtive glance through his tousled bangs and over the banister showed a long drop to the marble floor of the foyer below.

Fighting to regain his balance, Sam thought he succeeded until a mangy-looking black cat mysteriously appeared behind his heels. With his fingers scrabbling ineffectually at the slick varnished wood, another forceful push from the spirit sent his tall body flying up and over the handrail. His hands closed desperately around two decorative spindles as a cross between a grunt and a cry tore past his lips.

"Dean!"


	2. Hanging On for Dear Life

Standing inside one of the bedroom closets staring at his unresponsive EMF meter in frustration, the older Winchester felt his blood crystallize to ice when he heard his little brother cry out in distress. Dean immediately dropped everything, except his rock-salt loaded shotgun, and dashed for the door. In his haste to get out of the room and to Sam, Dean's toes on his right foot slammed into the gumwood door jamb. Even with his boots on, he felt a lightning streak of pain shimmy up the length of his leg. Dean ignored it and tore down the hall and past the mouth of the staircase.

Not seeing any sign of his brother, the hunter was about to continue on to the bedrooms Sam was supposed to be searching when another panting cry stopped him in his tracks.

"Dean!"

His eyes tracked unerringly to the source of the cry, and Dean gasped when he saw only the white-knuckled grip of familiar hands around two wooden spindles. Adrenalin immediately flooding his system, the hunter raced to the balustrade and spared a quick glance, heart sinking when he saw Sam dangling like a Winchester chandelier over the entrance hall.

"Ah, shit!" Dean sank to his knees and dropped the shotgun down next to him. He leaned forward and circled his hands around his brother's wrists.

Sam felt strong, warm hands close tightly over his wrists. Just knowing his brother was there and had a hold of him helped calm Sam's panic a bit.

"I gotcha! J-Just don't let go, 'kay?"

Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a split second._ Don't have to worry there, bro._ He made the mistake of looking down when he opened his eyes. Sam swallowed hard and tensed, resisting the vertigo that threatened to swamp him as he took in the unforgiving black-and-white marble far below. With nothing but solid marble to stop his descent, the younger hunter knew that in all likelihood he would be mortally wounded if he fell. Sam made an involuntary sound of distress at the back of his throat. His hands felt like they were getting clammy.

Heart pounding, Dean ordered, "Sam! Sammy, look at me. Look at me, dammit! Don't look down."

Sam yanked his almost mesmerized gaze away from the swirling marble and focused on his older brother as ordered.

"Can you swing?" the elder Winchester huffed out, "Swing to the right or left and try to get one of your legs up on that little ledge."

With great effort and not a little fear, Sam forced himself to start swinging his body like a pendulum. His shoulder and arm muscles began to burn with the effort. Back and forth, back and forth he swung until at last he gained enough momentum to aim his right leg at the tiny ledge. He grunted in frustration when it missed.

"Try again, Sammy," his brother encouraged, "You almost had it!"

Sweat gathered on his face and ran into Sam's eyes. He blinked away the burn as he worked to build momentum once more. This time his aim was true and his foot hit the ledge. It took all of Sam's concentration to stop his back swing and hook his foot around a spindle some six feet away.

"Okay, okay good. Now just hang on tight—I'm gonna lean over the railing, grab your jacket, and pull you up."

Dean hesitated. He didn't want to let go of Sam at all. Yet there was no way he could help him up with his arms thrust through the space between the wooden shafts. Wrestling his worry into the far reaches of his mind, Dean slammed the figurative door closed on it, following up with a mental padlock. The hunter swiftly let go of Sam's wrists, stood, and leaned over the balustrade in one coordinated motion. He fisted his hands in the bulk of his brother's dark gray jacket and pulled with all his might.

When Sam felt Dean's hands tug on his jacket, he strained upward, forcing his quivering arm and leg muscles to respond and help propel him forward. After several tense and breathless moments, Sam's shoulders cleared the railing and he maneuvered his left leg up to join his right on the ledge. With Dean's steadying hold, Sam was able to first straddle the balustrade and then launch himself completely over it. Feet on solid ground once more, Sam bent over and rested his hands on his knees, panting slightly. He felt a warm hand fall on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Y-Y-Yeah. F-Fine."

"What the hell happened?"

"S-Something pushed me. Most likely the spirit of Patience." Sam straightened to his full height.

"You didn't see her?"

"No—didn't see anything. Just felt a rush of cold air and something slammed into me. Probably woulda been okay except for the damn cat."

"Cat? What cat?"

"A black cat. Ended up under my feet somehow. Tripped me and Patience took her best shot," the tall hunter looked up and down the hall, "You didn't see it anywhere?"

"Nope. No sign of a cat at all." Dean looked intently at his brother. "Think the cat was a spirit too?"

Sam shrugged. "I suppose it could have been. A spirit with corporeal form. I dunno." He reached down to pick up the EMF meter he'd dropped. He hissed a little as he wrapped a hand around the plastic casing.

Stilling reeling from what had just happened Dean was instantly on alert. "What? What is it?"

Cradling the little black box in the crook of his arm, Sam muttered, "Nothing's wrong. Just got some blisters on my hands from swinging around like a 6' 4" kid on monkey bars." He held out his hands, palms up, showing his brother the reddened skin and small blisters forming on the fleshy area just below his fingers.

Dean winced in sympathy before bending down to pick up the discarded shotgun. "C'mon, Goliath, let's find this ghostly grandma and whip her ass so we can get the hell out of here. Did you find anything before she decided to send you high diving over the rail?"

"Nope. The bedrooms and bathroom where clean. Everything looked completely untouched."

"Yeah. I didn't find anything either. Lemme grab my bag and stuff and we'll go check out the main floor. Where's your duffel?"

"Crap. I left it in that last bedroom. I'll get it and meet you at the top of the stairs."

Sam hurried to the last bedroom he'd searched. His duffel bag was indeed sitting just inside the door.

_Dumbass. Great going, Winchester._

He shoved the EMF meter inside, though he left it on, and opted to pull out his own rock-salt loaded shotgun now that the spirit of Patience Prattleworthy had decided to start a deadly game of tag. As he turned to leave the room, the wary hunter's gaze roamed over the room a final time. For a split second, Sam swore he saw a two pairs of eyes staring and glaring at him from the gathering shadows, but he blinked and they were gone. Sam felt a shiver of unease race through him as he closed the door and hurried away from the room to join his brother.

At the top of the stairs, Sam stood waiting for Dean. He watched him come out of one of the bedrooms and start toward him. When Dean drew close, Sam frowned when he noticed a slight limp. "Why're you limping?"

"Huh?"

"You're limping. I want to know why. What happened?"

"Oh. It's nothing."

"Dean—"

"Seriously, Sam. It's nothing. I was an idiot and hit my foot on the door jamb when I heard you yell my name. It's just a sore toe."

"Think it's broke?"

"Doubt it," grumbled Dean.

Sam offered a half smile. "Darn. Here I was looking forward to calling you 'Gimpy' for a while."

The smack to the back of his head was totally expected.

"C'mon, let's go."

The pair started down the carpeted stairway. About two-thirds of the way down, the temperature around them nosedived as it had done earlier around Sam. The frigid air swirled and shimmered almost taking shape for a mere second before something roughly rammed into Dean from behind, knocking him forward and causing him to lose his footing. A shrill keening wail accompanied the push.

Sam made a mad grab for his brother, but his hand closed around air. He watched in horror as Dean tucked and rolled the final third of the way down the steps along with his duffel and shotgun, all of which came to rest in a heap on the marble floor at the bottom.


	3. Thumps, Thunks, and Bumps

Dean felt the cold Herculean push at his back. With one foot poised to descend to the next riser, he was off balance and felt himself begin to fall forward despite his best effort to fight it. Instinct had him tucking and rolling with the momentum, grunting as his knees, elbows, and chin met carpeted wood. On his second somersault, his nose took a blunt hit causing him to see a whole host of twinkling stars. Several thumps, thunks, and bumps later—each one accompanied by a harshly whispered curse—he finally came to a dizzied rest at the bottom of the stairs.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

The spirit of Patience Prattleworthy gazed at the two intruders with malevolence alight in her rheumy eyes. In life, she'd been a rather sweet and kindly old woman if a bit daft and eccentric. In death, well, the sweetness had been extinguished with the last beat of her heart. And it was all Ellsworth's fault. His lifelong competitiveness with his two sisters and most recent determination to uncover Patience's secret had led to her untimely death. She'd worked tirelessly after Papa died to discover the perfection for which he'd always strived. She'd succeeded too and the Prattleworthy name would have been famous, at least on the black market. Until that damnable brother of hers had interfered.

She wanted these two men gone, just as she wanted all the other annoyances gone from her place. They'd no right to sniff around and find what was hers and hers alone. If pushing wouldn't work, she'd have to employ other measures to send them packing. Or kill them. Whichever happened first.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

The arctic gust receded and disappeared as quickly as it had come. The little cyclones of dust kicked up by the unnatural swirl of air and Dean's tumble dying quick deaths and sinking back into the aged carpet.

"Ah, shit! Dean!"

Sam tore the rest of the way down the stairs, terrified of what he might find at the bottom. Kneeling next to his older sibling, who lay face down on the cold marble like a discarded throw rug, Sam did a quick body scan before he gently grasped Dean's shoulder, careful not to jar him.

"Dean? Hey, bro, you okay?"

"Ow. Sonuvabitch," Dean growled testily as he slowly, listlessly, rolled over. "That's gonna leave some bruises." He lay sprawled on his back, catching his breath as the adrenalin seeped away.

"You okay? Your nose is bleeding. Your chin's scraped raw. I don't see any other blood. Are you dizzy? Did you hit your head? Are you in pain? Think anything's sprained, strained, cracked, or broken?" Worry had words tumbling from Sam's mouth like hyper gymnasts on crack.

With the back of his hand, Dean swiped at the blood mustache coating his upper lip, smearing the crimson fluid across his cheek. "I'm fine."

A mistrustful frown settled between Sam's eyebrows. "Honestly fine or 'I'm at death's door' fine?"

Seeing the concern etched on his little brother's face, Dean took a moment to seriously assess his condition. "I think you can quit worrying, dude. It's just some bruises," the elder Winchester pointed to his chin and then held out his hands, palms up, "and a little rug burn."

"You're sure?" Sam pulled his lower lip between his teeth.

"Sam . . ." Dean's voice was a low growl, "I'm fine. The only thing seriously hurt is my damned pride. I can't believe an apparently very cranky old woman got the drop on me—even if she is a freakin' ghost."

Sighing, the younger Winchester rose to his full height. "Spirit," he corrected.

"Whatever." Dean raised his arm and wiggled his fingers. "Just help me the hell up."

Sam reached out and carefully pulled his brother to his feet. "So first me, then you. She's definitely pissed about something."

Dean slowly bent over and picked up his duffel bag. "Well, she's not going to be pissed much longer 'cause we're gonna smoke her pushy ass. Just as soon as we find her."

"Let's keep looking then. But no splitting up this time. I think we're safer together."

"Yeah, okay," grunted Dean, "Let's start in that living room."

"Parlor."

Dean threw a dubious look at Sam and opted to simply shake his head rather than dignify Sam's correction with an answer.

The pair walked to the room they'd occupied earlier. "You scan with the EMF. I'll cover you with the shotgun."

Sam nodded and moved forward, deeper into the room. Starting in the far corner, he guided the meter up and down, waiting, almost hoping, for its telltale squeal and flash of lights. He got his wish about halfway through the search. The flash and squeal coincided perfectly with the decided plunge in temperature. Thankfully, they were prepared for the ghostly games about to take place.

"Down!" Dean's warning came strong and fast.

The young hunter dived for the floor, no questions asked. He heard the boom of the shotgun and felt spent rock salt rain down on his back. Following the roar of the shotgun, Sam heard a strange and puzzling metallic twang. Rising first to his hands and knees and then to his feet, he glanced at the wall and felt his mouth drop open.

Dean reached his side in a matter of seconds and also stared openmouthed at the wall. A half a dozen now-mangled knitting needles protruded from the wall where Sam had stood moments earlier.

"Guess those kids weren't kidding, huh?" muttered Dean.

Reaching out and tugging on one of the odd, unlikely weapons, which remained firmly embedded, Sam swallowed hard. "Nope." He turned to look at Dean but his eyes landed instead on something over Dean's shoulder. Sam bit back a gasp and said, "Uh . . . Dean . . . you . . . you might want to turn around . . . slowly."

Expecting to come face-to-face with pushy ol' Patience, the elder Winchester did as his brother instructed and gaped at the sight before him. Thirteen cats, in a rainbow collection of colors, stared silently back at them. Gold-and-garnet swirls of otherworldliness shone brightly from a baker's dozen pairs of eyes. Their silence didn't last long. A deep, dense growling sounded from each of the creatures, so perfectly attuned to one another that the growls all sounded as one. The deep rumble vibrated its way through the floor boards and right up the boys' legs.

Dean's grip tightened on the shotgun. _Crap! This can't be good._

As one, the small army of cats began to advance forward.


	4. Cats, Claws, and Crockery

"Great," grumbled the older Winchester, "I prefer a different kind of pussycat—one who's tall, blonde, and dressed in leather. Here are thirteen pussycats and not one of 'em is a stripper." He could almost hear Sam roll his eyes at his musings.

Resisting the urge to step backward as the contingent of crazed cats surged, Dean brought the shotgun to his shoulder and triggered one barrel, dissolving three of the demonic felines with rock salt. The other barrel took out two more. Somewhat happier with the odds, but out of 'ammo', he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "Sam, can you get to your shotgun?"

Dean stepped in front of Sam as his brother backed up slowly but surely, heading for the duffel bag where his shotgun currently resided. The second his hand touched the bag, however, the deep grumbly growling grew infinitely louder and more menacing. The furry army advanced without hesitation—32 paws in hasty lock step.

"Hurry, Sam!"

Despite his urging, the eight remaining cats were upon them before Sam's gun cleared the bag. Using his shotgun like a club, the elder Winchester managed to disperse two of the four freaky bastards leaping for him. The other two landed—one on his right thigh and one on his chest—screeching maniacally and sinking their claws deep.

Sam fared worse. All four of his attackers made contact, two clinging to his back and one on his leg. The fourth one aimed for the top of Sam's head and missed, leaving the supernatural beast trying, unsuccessfully, to hang on with its piercing, razor-sharp nails. It merely succeeded in leaving bloody trails, in spite of his clothing, all the way down the Sam's chest and leg as it sank toward the floor. The young hunter's yelp as their claws dug in could actually be heard over the cats' incessant growling.

With a pained grunt, Sam managed to clear his shotgun from the bag despite his newly acquired feline appendages. Aiming at the cat on the floor, he unloaded a barrel of rock salt right into the creature's face before it could launch itself at him once more. Sam was about to sweep at the one firmly attached to his leg with one of his own large, five-fingered paws but resisted the temptation, choosing instead to cold-cock it with the butt of the shotgun. The blow sent the fiendish feline flying end-over-end across the room. It was joined a moment later by both cats that were attempting to shred Dean to death. The younger hunter let loose with the second barrel of rock salt from his shotgun decimating the trio of barbaric beasts. The two remaining demonic critters, those still firmly adhering to Sam's back, suddenly disappeared as quickly as they'd appeared. A preternatural silence replaced the hellish rumbling.

Dean scowled and looked warily around the room and then at his brother, who stood with his t-shirt pulled up while he examined the blood furrows on his chest.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I guess," muttered Sam as he pulled his dark red t-shirt back in place, wincing a little as he did so, "but I could do without seeing another frickin' cat for a while."

"Yeah, no shit," Dean gingerly pulled at the neck of his own t-shirt and peered down at the oozing claw marks on his own chest. "Always thought there was something spooky about cats anyway. It's just worse when they happen to be freaky evil-assed apparitions."

Both men quickly reloaded their shotguns before picking up their duffel bags.

"I don't think there's anything in this room to find," Sam said as he straightened with his bag in one hand and shotgun in the other.

"What makes you say that?"

"I dunno. Just a feeling I have."

"Fine. Let's get to the other rooms then and get this over with. I'm already sick of this damn job."

The house remained quiet as the Winchester brothers moved from the parlor and down the hall to the small kitchen. The old-fashioned appliances appeared well-preserved but were covered in the same two year's worth of grime as the rest of the house.

"Hey, Sam? Isn't it odd that the family didn't do anything with this house after the old woman disappeared?"

"It is. But I read somewhere in the research that Patience had a bunch of legal documents in place preventing anyone, including the county, from touching the property for a period of ten years following her death or disappearance."

"Weird old bat." Seconds after Dean muttered the words, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and ducked. A small silver bowl that had been sitting on the counter flew over his head and hit the wall with a resonating twang.

"Think that's your clue not to insult the ghost, Dean."

"Spirit."

"Whatever."

"Crazy, old, _vengeful_ spirit."

A delicate china plate, patterned with purple irises, rocketed toward Dean's head. Another duck from the tall hunter left it striking the wall in almost the exact same place as the bowl and smashing to pieces.

"Not funny, Dean . . ."

"All right, all right. Just scan."

Surprisingly, a scan of the kitchen brought about no reaction from the EMF meter in Sam's hand despite the recently flung projectiles.

The pair moved on to the dining room and the small rudimentary laundry room next to it before heading for the living room that took up a good portion of the back corner of the house. They ended their search in the bathroom.

Sam frowned in frustration. "Nothing."

"So we've searched upstairs and downstairs and found nothing. Now what? There's no attic."

"No, but there is a basement."

Dean sighed. "Of course there is. And what better place to hide a body. Shoulda just started there. So where's the door and the stairs? I didn't see them."

"That's 'cause they're outside." Sam lead the way through the main floor and out the back door. A few yards away was a canted wooden double door leading to the Prattleworthy basement. They opened with a few load creaks and groans.

Leaving Sam to juggle an EMF meter and shotgun, Dean pulled out his flashlight and illuminated their way down the creaky wooden stairs. By the time they were at the bottom, both boys were coughing as a result of the dust kicked up by their descent.

Dean darted the beam of light around the room. It's lemon-colored light revealed row after row of floor-to-ceiling shelving and nearly every shelf was loaded with old-fashioned beige and brown crockery jugs with cork stoppers. The hunter leaned forward and peered closely at the writing on the jug nearest him.

"Prattleworthy's Precious Palliative." He raised an eyebrow and looked at his brother. Propping his shotgun carefully against the wall, Dean grabbed the jug, pulled the cork, and took a sniff. He grinned.

"Well?" To Sam's astonishment, his sibling raised the crockery to his lips and took a big swig. "Dean, what the hell?!"

As he swallowed, Dean felt his eyes start to water at the burn and he coughed. Once the coughing fit receded, he held out the jug to his brother with a big smile plastered on his face and a decided sparkle in his eyes.

"It's moonshine!"


	5. Patience, Pain, and Pride

Well, here it is--the last chapter. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing. Sorry for not having managed to keep up with my individual responses. I promise to do better. I hope everyone enjoys this final chapter.

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When Sam merely stood there gaping at him, Dean raised the jug and took a second smaller swig, nearly choking when the crockery was suddenly torn from his hands. It hit the ground with a dull thud, followed by the glug-glug of the alcohol pouring from the neck of the container and disappearing as the hard-packed dirt floor acted like a thirsty sponge.

"Dude, are you freakin' insane?!" Sam yelled.

"What? It's mighty fine white lightning, Sam. Smoooth as silk," Dean's watering eyes and rotgut-rasped voice somewhat belied his claim.

"Yeah—and it could also be poisonous, dumbass! It could be methyl alcohol. You could go blind or die from drinkin' shit like that!"

"But . . ."

"But nothing . . ." growled the tall, lanky hunter, "Besides we're on a

j-o-b, Dean."

The older man had the grace to look a little sheepish as the room lazily spun and twirled for a second before steadying once more. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Sorry, Sammy," he muttered before allowing a small smirk, "It's just that, you know, I've always liked jugs—both kinds." Dean made a crude gesture with his hands and paused, waiting to see if his flippant remark relaxed the tense lines of annoyance on Sam's face. He actually did feel like an ass for drinking the hooch when he should be concentrating on the hunt and protecting his brother. He almost sighed with relief when he saw the corner of Sam's mouth begrudgingly tilt upward slightly at his joke.

Dean directed the beam of the flashlight up and down the shelving. "Sure is a hell of a lot of hooch, Sam. Maybe I can take a j—"

"No."

"Ahhh, c'mon, you don't even know what I was gonna say."

"Yes, I _do_ know what you were gonna say. And no."

"Damn. You are such a hard ass sometimes, Sammy. No fun. At. All."

"Whatever."

"Fine," Dean huffed out a breath, "Hey, whatdaya make of those?" The elder Winchester pointed to odd letters and numbers that were scratched into the wall at varying intervals. "Some kind of spell or something?"

Sam frowned as his eyes followed the track of the beam of light. "Not that I can tell. They seem pretty random."

Dean shrugged, before grabbing the shotgun he'd leaned against the wall. "With all this white lightning, there's gotta be a still around here somewhere." Their continued perusal of the room revealed nothing but the shelves stocked with corn liquor. "Yahtzee!" The young hunter strolled quickly to the corner of the room.

"What?" muttered Sam, who was right on his heels.

"There's a door here. It blends in with the wall, but it's definitely a door. Here—hold the flashlight."

With deft and sensitive fingertips, Dean felt around the edge of the door looking for a handle or some sort of trigger that would open it. Finding nothing, he gave in to his natural impatience, reared back, and plowed his shoulder into the door. He grunted at both the trill of pain that thrummed through his shoulder and success of his action when the door thundered open.

A quick sweep of the flashlight in Sam's hand revealed the expected still in the middle of the room. Here too were shelves loaded with jugs full of moonshine and, incongruously, in the corner sat a rocking chair with a basket full of yarn and knitting needles on the floor next to it.

"So you think this was the old lady's thing? She made moonshine and—what—knitted at the same time?"

His brother didn't have a chance to answer. A loud vibrating rumble sounded, accompanied by the shrill warning of the EMF meter still in Sam's other hand. Suddenly, the crockery on the shelves began to take flight. One after the other, the jugs flew—many of them aiming straight at the Winchesters. For all their ducking and weaving, several of the jugs found their targets. One slammed into Sam's shoulder and he groaned, dropping the flashlight.

As the flashlight tumbled and spun, the strobe-light like effect made Dean a little dizzy as he ducked yet another jug missling for his head. He'd already suffered one glancing blow to his temple.

"Sam?!" he cried out when he heard his brother's pained groan.

"Dean—Dean, I think I know where she's buried!" Sam shouted over the noise, "We gotta get the shovels."

The brothers made a run for the stairs but were stopped by the spirit of Patience Prattleworthy, who materialized in front of them and blocked their exit. Her mouth was curled into a rabid snarl and her hostile eyes were locked on Sam. When she moved forward with arms outstretched and gnarled hands curled into claws, Dean let loose with a load of rock salt, sending her temporarily to the ether. With the way now clear, they tore up the stairs and to the shiny Impala waiting at the bottom of the driveway.

Breathing hard and struggling slightly to get the key in the trunk lock, Dean panted, "Y-Y-You okay?"

"Y-Yeah. Fine. You?"

"I'm fine. Just more bruises on top of the others." Dean pushed a shovel into Sam's hands. "Leave your duffel here. I've got salt, lighter fluid, and matches in mine." Dean grabbed a second shovel and closed the trunk.

Without delay, they were headed back toward the basement.

"So where is she?"

"I think she's buried under . . ."

". . . the still," finished Dean. "Damn. Shoulda figured that one out myself."

"I've been thinking . . . You know those letters and numbers on the walls?"

"Yeah."

"I think they're her recipe, Dean. Remember how she said she'd "found perfection" in that letter you read? I think she discovered what she considered the perfect recipe for moonshine. I think someone killed her trying to get it."

Dean nodded. "You mean someone like that Ellsworth guy . . . the brother."

"Yeah."

"That's pretty messed up."

The minute the Winchester brothers hit the bottom of the steps, the crockery once again began to dance and shimmy on the shelves. The jugs arrowed across the room and slammed into the walls, each cracking open and spilling their own spirits into the dirt. The raw scent of pungent alcohol hung heavy in the air and made them both cough.

Once more in the back room, Sam hurriedly knocked over the still and pushed the pieces out of the way as Dean began to dig. Before he could wield his own shovel, the temperature plunged and Sam caught a glimpse of Patience as she coalesced in the corner of the room. He moved to retrieve the shotgun but wasn't quite quick enough as a flash of silver flew from her ghostly hand. The young hunter cried out in pain as he felt the knitting needles sink deep into his shoulder.

Hearing his brother's cry, Dean paused and looked over. "Sam!"

"Keep digging!" Despite the new injury, his fingers closed around the shotgun, and Sam pulled it up and fired at Patience in one motion. She disappeared in a spiraling gray cloud.

Sam spun on his heel, debating whether to try and help shovel or to stand guard. Coming to a decision, he laid the shotgun at his feet and started to dig. "I don't think she's very far down," he panted, the repetitive motion of shoveling pulling at the knitting needles. He felt sweat break out on his forehead.

Cold swirled through the basement once more and a quartet of knitting needles zinged through the air. This time both boys grunted at the sting of impalement with the shiny weapons.

As Sam again managed to yank the shotgun into position, he heard Dean yell "I've got her" just as he pulled the trigger.

Dean hurriedly poured salt over the barely exposed bones. "Sam, get ready to run. With all this alcohol, this place is gonna go quick when I get her lit up."

With shotgun, shovel, and flashlight in hand, Sam ran for the stairs. The whoosh behind him let him knew that Dean had dropped the match.

"Go! Go! Go!" yelled Dean when he caught up to him, his duffel bumping furiously against his thigh.

The boys sprinted up the stairs and out into the chill air of dusk. A roar sounded behind them. Several loud thumps were heard as whatever unbroken crockery there was succumbed to the fire and heat and exploded. The Winchester brothers didn't stop until they reached the Impala.

After dropping everything into the trunk and closing it, Dean turned to look at Sam. "Shit, dude, you look like a giant pin cushion."

"Feel like one," Sam grimaced. "You look like one too." He pointed.

"What? I'm not . . ." Dean looked down and saw two knitting needles in his left thigh and one in his side. "Oh."

Sam limped to the back passenger side door and opened it, wincing as the handle dug into the blisters on his palm.

"Guess we're heading to the ER, huh?" Dean pulled his own door open.

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."

Dean eyeballed his brother quizzically when Sam began to crawl into the backseat. "Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

"I . . . uh . . . I can't sit . . . in the front." The younger Winchester stretched out full length on his stomach, staying propped up on his elbows to accommodate the knitting needles protruding from his shoulder.

"What? What do you mean you can't sit in the front?"

Sam sighed and dropped his head. "I mean . . . I can't sit . . . period."

"You can't—" Dean squinted and trailed his gaze over Sam until he spied the knitting needle embedded deeply in Sam's right butt cheek. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. And don't even say it."

"Say what?" Dean bit his lip to stifle a chuckle.

"Whatever joke you were gonna make at my expense."

Affecting a woebegone expression, Dean settled into the driver's seat and closed his door. "Now I'm hurt, I'd never cra . . ."

"Dean! Can we just go? Please. I'm not exactly feeling great right now."

Suddenly feeling the pain from his own injuries, the elder Winchester felt sympathy flare for his brother, who had a greater number of knitting needles sticking out of him. He'd also taken the brunt of the demon cat attack as well. He brought the big car to life and put it into gear.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?" grunted Sam.

"How good are your acting skills?"

"You should know. They're pretty good, I guess. Why?"

"Need a cover story at the ER so I figured we should act like a couple of frat boys drunk off our asses. We smell like a brewery as it is. Might as well have them explain away the knitting needles like they did for those kids."

Hissing as the Impala rolled over a particularly large bump in the road, Sam moaned, "Trust me. If acting drunk will get these damn knitting needles outta me, I'm there."

Suddenly, Dean chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Just thinking . . . It's gonna be a while before you can sit down comfortably again, huh? Hey, they might even give you one of those plastic donut shaped things to sit on!"

"And you think this is funny?"

"Well, yeah, it's a little funny."

Sam huffed out a half-irritated breath. "Okay, just remember that, dude. 'Cause while I'm miserable, I'm gonna make you miserable too. And payback's a bitch."

It was a promise more than a threat.

**XXX **_**The End**_** XXX**


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